Blindly We Go Marching
by BetsunoNeko
Summary: I'm not really sure when I fell in love with him. I think it's something that's always been, like a fact of my biology. There is no specific moment because that feeling has always been there, I just always didn't recognize it. I didn't recognize the feelings like the horrible one I got around his boyfriend. He's irresistible. He's untouchable. Grestophe
1. He's Untouchable

**1**

**He's Untouchable**

I'm not really sure when I fell in love with him. I think it's something that's always been, like a fact of my biology. It's like saying the grass is green. There is no specific moment because that feeling has always been there, I just always didn't recognize it. I didn't recognize the craving I got to be in his presence, the rapid fluttering in my chest, the spark that ignited his eyes, the way my skin lit on fire when he'd so much as brush up against me. The emotion that would bubble up when he was around, it had just always been there.

The feeling of carrying out another job with him at my side, the feeling of having him care for my wounds, scolding me all the while, the feeling of having him simply around, and even the feeling when I'd see him with his boyfriend were just fact. It's how I'd always felt and how I will always feel and I've come to begrudgingly except that.

I steal the moments that I can. The jobs, the injuries, the few classes we share in school (if I even bother to show up), they all count as one big collective "best moment ever" so long as he's there.

He's a craving, like the desire to smoke. He's irresistible. He's untouchable. Believe me, I've tried so many times to let go. He's an addiction that just keeps coming back, an urge I can't keep at bay. He's my other half, as fucking cheesy as that sounds. Good thing I'll never say it out loud.

Speaking of him… sprawled out, flat on his toned stomach, delicate looking yet undeniably powerful hands cradling the trigger of the sniper rifle like a first-time parent would hold a baby, his sharp blue eyes narrowed in focus, the tiniest bit of sweat on his forehead and oh god his hair. His fucking _hair. _The perfectly combed and gelled blonde tresses that fall in delicate and unbelievably sexy curls around his head haven't changed much over the years. They're dirty golden blonde with natural sun-bleached streaks of whiter blonde scattered without. I could make a map of his hair, if I could draw, but drawing is complete bullshit. His crisp black button up shirt compliments his golden hair nicely, and his tight fitting dark jeans that he always wears to things like this are tucked neatly into his ninety-dollar brown combat boots. God even holding a gun he looks so neat and tidy I want to rip it all apart for fun.

The cold night of air chills me to the bone and I shift a little, cigarette smoke hissing through my teeth obnoxiously in his direction. For a split second he shoots me a glance.

"Knock it off," he scolds like a father would a child.

"How about no?" I blow an incredibly large amount of smoke at his perfect hair.

"Quit it for Christ's sake!"

"Christ? Was has that beetch ever done for me?" I chuckle humorously, rolling the cigarette in between my fingers and admiring the delightfully worn and tattered black fingerless gloves I've been dawning for years now.

"It's a figure of speech! If you bothered to come to English class once in a while you'd know this." Does he ever stop nagging? It doesn't suit him. I let him know.

"Nagging does not suit you, mon ami," I raise the night vision binoculars up to my brown eyes again, scanning the ground beneath the long abandoned hotel where we're perched. "How much longer before zis beetch arrives? Ridiculous," I grumble bitterly.

He sighs and shifts slightly to check his watch. "Should be soon. Damn it's cold…"

I scoff and laugh bitterly at him. "Zats because you've lost your touch."

"Have not," comes his immediate and snappy response.

I laugh in a short burst again, rubbing the cigarette against the cement roofing beneath us. "Zes, you 'ave. Ze cold tonight ees nothing compared to last week," I pause to focus the binoculars. "And you used to mock me for being a beetch over the weather," I shake my head at him, clicking my tongue softly.

He turns around, face red and fuming, partially from cold and partially from being irritated. God I love that look. "I _know. _I thought I'd have to take you to the hospital and get you treated for hypothermia. Careless bastard…" He murmurs the last part.

"How ees your bastard, Gregory? Still an enormous pu-"

"Shut up about him! God, can't you just be happy for me?" _No. Not if you're happiness comes from him. _

"I might be if he wasn't such a pussy."

"Will is a good guy." Is that sadness in his voice? "You just are so abrasive any other person besides the three people you associate with are 'god loving beetches'" He mocks my accent miserably so I kick his foot harshly with mine.

Will has been Gregory's boyfriend for the past six months. Yes, you heard me. Six fucking months. He's a complete tool and I would kill him in a heartbeat. But Gregory… _loves _him. He spends all of his time with Will and it's been forever since he's actually done a job with me. He broke out of his three month absence period earlier today when I mentioned my plans. He had come up to me after school, surprised I had showed up for the first time in weeks and had asked how things were. It had been a few days since I'd seen him.

"Everything ees fine."

"Want to come see a movie with me and Will?"

_Fuck no. _"Fuck no."

You pouted. "Why?"

"I have a job tonight. You should know 'is." I have no doubt that he did know it but it just slipped his mind. Even though we hadn't gone on a job together, every time I would stumble to my apartment at one or two or three in the morning with some sort of injury, he'd be asleep on my couch with his headphones on or still awake with a book like a mother waiting for her child to come home from a party. He is always there to clean my injuries and make sure I don't pass out on the floor. He's always there to make sure I eat something and that I have food in my fridge. He is always there to insist I shower.

"Oh. Third one this month? Damn, Chris." He's the only one I let call me Chris. "Is it…?"

He means dangerous. "Yes, Gregory. Eet ees always."

He seems to contemplate something deeply for a second. "Let me come."

_Yes. Oh please yes. _"No. Eet ees dangerous and you 'ave a date." I took another drag of my cigarette and blew it in his face. He scowled and waved the air in front of his nose in a pathetic attempt to clear the air.

"Oh please, Mole. It's been forever. How many targets?"

"Just one."

"Then it will be easier with Roxy." Roxy. The pet name he gave his sniper rifle. Of course it will. It's always easier to snipe a target rather than try to bash their head in with a shovel or blow them up in some brilliant display of pyrotechnics, but efficiency isn't always the most fun.

"Of course eet will be. She's a fucking gun."

"Good, then it's settled. Meet you at your place at eight." _What about Will_? I want to ask, but for fear of him suddenly remembering (as if he had forgotten) I said nothing.

I have my own apartment. What can I say? Killing pays well. It's shitty and on the terrible side of town but its functional and away from my domineering mother and drunkard father. I can't count the number of nights Gregory has opted just to stay there on my couch (which I only bought for his sake in the first place even though I'd never tell him that) rather than go home. That's changed because of Will.

"He's here." Gregory's heavily British accented voice snaps me out of my trance. Sure enough there's the target. A balding man with a large stomach and a beak-like nose walks from a car across the large dirt lot towards the sleazy bar. He's surrounded by four guards. I don't know what he does and I don't give a shit, frankly. If I'm told to kill him so be it as long as I get my fucking money afterwards.

"'ell didn't 'e take 'is sweet time. Go." At my signal his finger hits the trigger. There's silence and I watch the man crumple like paper in the binocular. Immediately his guards whip out their guns and start shooting in every direction possible.

We hit the floor in a second flat and a bullet flies way too close for comfort. Gregory winces as he flattens himself against the roof. _Something's wrong. _The trace of pain is gone as quickly as it had come and then he draws his other pistol and while the dead man's gunman reload, Gregory turns into that side of him. The side of him with that hint of hatred lining every action, the side of him that will freeze your blood. The killer side of him that was present even as a child.

God I love him.

I don't have a gun so I lay flat against the roof, looking for an opening.

"Cover me," I demand over the gun fire. He nods. Drawing the large titanium enforced shovel from my back I leap off of the side of the long abandoned building's roof, hitting an old and decrepit fire escape and sliding down the steps with as much speed as I can manage. The cover fire is enough to get me behind the side of the bar.

I hear the men murmuring something and I prepare myself. Just as one rounds the corner, before there's even a second for him to flinch, the end of my shovel connects violently with a spray of blood to his head, crushing his skull in between the metal and brick of the wall. With a disgusting squishing sound his body crumples.

After the gun fire ceases I emerge, waiting for the signal from Gregory up on the roof. It comes. He got the other three.

Bolting as fast as we can to his car, we throw ourselves in before the police arrive, the after-kill high buzzing through us like electricity. It's always so much more fun when he's here. "Drive," I bark. He punches the gas and heat guzzles out of the air vents. I sigh and lean into the soft upholstery of his seats, heart pounding out of my chest with adrenaline.

Within a few minutes we're at my run-down apartment complex and rush into the room, hurrying so as not to catch anyone's attention as to why two high-school seniors are carrying a gun and bloody shovel.

He slides down to the floor with his back against my door the second it's closed and locked.

I chuckle at that. "You are very rusty, mon ami." Gregory sends me a harsh glare, but underneath it, there it is, the inexplicable pain.

"No…" he pants. "Just… tired."

"And out of practice." He stands and as he does I move to playfully sock him in the stomach. It was something I did more when we were sixteen and fifteen, but now is a perfect time to utilize the behavior to find out what's wrong with him because the prick is too up his own ass to tell me if he got hurt.

As I expected, he flinches. I hate to hurt him but if he's injured he needs to fucking let me know. My eyes narrow as I lay my shovel against the couch.

"Were you 'it?" I ask.

"W-what?" Gregory plays stupid but his face is a little pale. I glare. He knows it. I caught him. His face reads _Oh fuck. _

"Gregory…" I growl in a low voice, gripping his upper arm tightly. This also makes him wince but I don't let go. I drag him to the bathroom and reach for the over-used first aid kit.

"No, really, Christophe, it's nothing, really, I'm just sore from-", he rambles, speeding up, paling to a ghastly white as he flails madly to cover something up.

"You're a bad fucking liar, Gregory. Now show me or I'll find it myself." Gregory completely crumbles in front of me, eyes widening, then dropping a little in silent exhaustive defeat.

"I-…" He hangs his head in… shame? No that's not like him. Gregory doesn't have shame.

"Fine," I growl, popping the first aid kit open and tearing at the buttons of his shirt carelessly before stopping all together as the first sliver of his stomach comes into view. I think I stop breathing. It takes me a moment before I catch up with the rest of my body and slowly begin to pull the shirt off of him, discarding it on the floor, completely forgotten.

His skin is exactly how I imagined it would be. Toned, tan, muscly… intoxicating. What I didn't imagine, though, is the deep purple and grey bruises staining almost the entire right side of his torso and on both of his upper arms.

The silence is fucking deadly.

"C-Christophe… d-don't freak out…" he sounds defeated. Broken. I hate it.

"…Que vais-je regarder? " I manage to mutter quietly.

"D-don't…," he starts in that same tone.

"_THE FUCK AM I LOOKING AT?" _I practically scream in his face. He flinches visibly, something Gregory has never done. He doesn't flinch. He's a fucking wall.

Tearing myself violently away from my haze, I brush my hands as gently across the un-naturally dark purple marks across his otherwise flawless skin. He shudders under me.

"_WELL?! RESPONDEZ-MOI!" _

He doesn't. We stand in silence for a while, the only noise the buzzing of the cheap florescent bulbs in the bathroom. I leave the small space and head into the kitchen, my mind to foggy to make anything out of. I manage to get one of the ice-packs he bought for me, a glass of water, and two Tylenol pills. When I walk back into my bathroom he's sitting on the closed toilet seat, his shirt back on with his head in his hands and his face hidden from me.

I thrust the cup and pills at him violently and without looking up he takes them silently. Isn't it funny how roles reverse sometimes? Here I am playing nurse.

"Se lever…", I tell him softly and he complies, getting to his feet but still keeping his gaze glued to the floor and hidden under his fucking perfect hair. I hand him the icepack. We walk slowly and silently to my bed in the only bedroom and he sits with his back against the cheap wooden headboard. I kick off my shoes and pull of my gloves. I take off my blood-splattered shirt for a baggy black one and sit on the mattress next to him. It creaks a little.

"… He loves me, you know."

I want to shake him and slap him. I want to scream until he gets it, _NO HE DOESN'T _because anyone who loves him wouldn't do this. Instead I can't speak.

"'Ow long 'as it been since you've slept properly?" I ask.

Gregory stops to think. "I dunno." He's always had sleeping problems. He carries his stress to his subconscious. Silently, I wrap my arm around his shoulders, and at the simple contact within seconds he's buried himself into my chest, crying. I'm at a complete loss for words, a complete loss for anything. I simply sit there with him until he falls asleep against me.

After he's long drifted into dream-land I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him as close to me as I can, and for the first time in eleven years I cry.

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><p><em>AN: _Trying my hand at Grestophe... I know this is a weird way to write Gregory but I had this idea and fell in love with it. Thanks for reading~ There isn't enough Grestophe in the world. T_T

Here's the traslations to the French (thank you Google-translate!)

-Mon ami: my friend

-Que vais-je regarder: what am I looking at?

-Respondez moi: tell me

-Se lever: Stand up


	2. That's Not Love

_A/N:_ Yay a second chapter already! Thanks for the reviews and favorites, I really appreciate it. I know how I wrote Gregory is a little... bizarre and new but it'll all make sense eventually. Love is blind, people. I know the chapter is kinda' short, it'll pick up eventually though. I might not update until later this week... it all just depends.

My French quotes for this chapter:

-Allez à l'intérieur, princesse. Je suis occupé**:** **Go inside princess. I'm busy.**

-Tête de caniche:** Poodle head. **

Don't be shy, review!

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><p><strong>2<strong>

**That's Not Love**

I wake up with a dull pain in my abdomen. _Oh. _Sighing deeply and rising out of the fog of sleep, the first thing I notice is the faint scent of sweat and cigarettes. Rubbing one eye and running a hand through my hair I remember where I am. Overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame I roll carefully onto my back, staring up at Christophe's discolored ceiling.

The clock on my cellphone says seven in the morning and I have four missed calls all from Will. _Fuck him. _Bitterly, groaning a little with the pain, I sit up and take in the still shadowy surroundings of the room. It must be really cloudy outside today. Moving my head to the side a little I notice the absence of warmth in the unmade bed. His room is trashed. Clothes dirty and clean lay all over the place, unfolded and either dirt covered or wrinkled. His ash tray has fallen over and spilt on his carpet and a few empty soda cans lie around his over-filling trashcan. Roxy is in the wooden chair in the corner of his tiny room.

Gaining the strength to sit up and get out of his unusually comfortable bed, I slowly move out into his kitchen. Having a pretty good idea where he is, I grab one of his bulky brown jackets and pull it on before heading out his front door to the back of his apartment complex. Sure enough, in the center of a growing ring of dirt, is a nearly five foot deep hole, the only thing inside that is visible is the tiny shape of his head bobbing bellow with each movement of his beloved shovel. Small wisps of smoke drift out into the air.

He digs like it's the greatest passion in his life. Every movement is so purposeful, every grunt of exertion placed rhythmically like a music-less song known only to him, even the way the smoke curls up above him seems to have been planned somehow. I catch myself before my mind drifts further.

"Mole," I call out. He stiffens suddenly, his trance having been broken, then grunts and continues to dig pointlessly. The entire back lot of his apartment complex is covered in holes. They vary in almost every aspect, depth, width, angle, and I wouldn't be surprised if he has an entire tunnel system down here. I think it's how he unwinds. I've known him since we were six but still somehow he remains a complete mystery, like no form of psychology fits just quite right, like nothing can explain his ticks and behaviors. He's an enigma. "It's freezing out here," I state for lack of anything else to say. This comment doesn't even dignify his usual barbaric grunt of a response. I sigh, again. "How long have you been at it?"

He pauses for a moment before resuming digging. "Zree 'ours."

"Three hours?" I repeat dumbly.

"Oui. Zat ees what I zaid, non?" His accent is always heavier in the mornings, as if he hasn't acclimated to where he is quite yet.

"Come eat something," I offer to get him out of the cold.

"Non," comes his immediate response. "Besides," A large mound of dirt almost hits me as he flings it blindly over his right shoulder, "I 'ave no food right now."

Christophe always forgets to buy groceries. I practically do it for him. I don't even think he'd shower on a regular basis if I didn't remind him.

"Seriously? Didn't I _just _get you groceries?"

He sighs loudly at me from down in his hole, sounding exasperated. "Allez à l'intérieur, princesse. Je suis occupé," he groans loudly. The only reason I even know French is because of him and I speak it quite well. Frustrated I kick some of the dirt back into his hole. Instantly his head whips around and his intense glare bores right into my skull. In that moment, I think if I had been anyone else, the shovel in his hand would have flown into my neck in five seconds flat. "I zaid I am buzy, or can you not here anymore?" Christophe practically snarls at me.

Great. He's in one of these moods. I glare right back. "You seriously need to shower too, your skin is like five shades darker than usual." I know the tone I take when I say stuff like that irks him to absolutely no end. I watch him grind the cigarette in his mouth painfully in between his teeth. Without another word he flips me off and simply continues to dig, as if I hadn't been there at all. Scoffing loudly at him, I turn to head away when his voice reaches me again.

"You know, princesse, zat jacket looks fucking sexy on you," he calls loud enough for the entire apartment complex to hear. I can practically see the smirk on his face and I let out an angry grunt in response, trudging up the stairs back to his apartment and slamming his door. He has seven different locks installed but I have the keys to them all.

Christophe is paranoid as all get out. I violently tear his jacket off and throw it on his couch, pulling at the bruises on my abdomen and making me wince. _God dammit. Fucking Christophe. _

After a few minutes of scanning his empty fridge, I find a not-yet expired carton of eggs (it's a miracle!) and a stained and probably never washed pan in one of his cupboards. About half-way though cooking one, I hear the locks click open on his door and the heavy thud of his boots against the filth stained carpet.

I don't dignify his entrance with a response nor does he acknowledge the fact that I'm cooking for him again. Most of the time he just forgets to eat if I'm not here and spends his entire day smoking at a coffee shop downtown or digging holes all day. Sometimes he's even passed off as a guy in his early twenties and decides to spend the day smoking in a bar that may or may not also be a strip club, I have no idea at this point.

He disappears into his room for a few minutes but comes back out, laying his shovel against his counter top and sitting in one of his highly uncomfortable Goodwill bar-stools. Wordlessly I set the egg on a paper plate and hand it to him before starting on my own.

"How are ze bruises?" He asks so casually I almost choke on my own saliva. It takes a second or two for me to recover.

"F-fine," I manage.

He scoffs and chuckles, I can tell he's speaking with his mouth full without even turning around. "'Ike I 'aid, you are a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying," I say, flipping the egg over, "they're not _that _bad."

He scoffs again. "Zey are almost an entire third of your stomach, Gregory. Zat is 'not zat bad'. Eet is pretty fucking bad ees what eet ees." I take my own food and sit beside him, avoiding all eye contact and picking at the egg violently. "'Ow did you even let zat 'appen?"

Having seen that question coming I rake my hand through my hair and sigh dryly for the third time this morning. "I don't even really know… we were fighting about something ridiculous and I think I shoved him and before I know it he just… I didn't really know what to do so I just left."

"You didn't even punch back?" Christophe seems almost _ashamed. _"British pussy."

"Shut up!" I shout angrily, sending a ringing silence through his apartment. He doesn't seem fazed and keeps eating as if I hadn't just practically screamed at him. "What do you even know about love?" I spit venomously.

He shakes his head before grumbling, "Enough to know it usually does not involve getting ze shit beat out of you by your partner." I can practically feel my face turn red and my shoulders shake a little with the pure anger at the truth of his words. It doesn't matter. Christophe is Christophe. He always tries to get under my skin. _Let it go, _I force myself to breathe. "Tête de caniche…" he mutters barely audibly under his breath.

"Did you just call me _poodle head?_" I practically seethe.

"Mmm… Non, I don't zink I recall zat." I smack him upside the head and snatch away his almost cleared plate. Christophe pouts like a child and I glare down at him. He crosses his arms and sighs. "Zook… just… I trust zat you are smart enough to understand your own emotions, but _zat," _he gestures to the small splotch of purple visible on part of my exposed stomach, "zat is not okay. Zat is not love." I think that is the most profound thing I've ever heard him say. Sitting dumfounded for a second allows enough time for his face to regain its usual fire and that soft and somber tone to disappear from his voice. "Now give me my fucking breakfast back, beetch."

We finish eating in silence until I watch him light a cigarette. "I 'ave another job opportunity soon," he says while exhaling smoke like a dragon.

"Oh?" I say mindlessly, pretending to be uninterested even though my heart has already started pounding harder in anticipation.

"Mm. A big one. I will 'ave more of ze detains soon, so keep your schedule free, mon ami."

"You can't just order me around, Chris."

"Zes, princesse, I can," He smirks, blowing smoke in my face. I make a disgusted look at him.

"I'll come… but only if you show up to school for two days. _Full, _days." Christophe growls in response, a deep throaty sound while grinding his teeth together.

"We shall see."

I already know it's a yes.


	3. Mr Sarcasm

_A/N:_ The chapters will get longer eventually, sorry for these short beginning ones.  
>Thanks for the reviews, they mean a lot, nella311 and British-Peice-Of-Sheet<p>

French I use in this chapter,

-Je sais: **I know.**

-Je ne peux pas vous croire parfois: **I can't believe you sometimes**

-mon ami: **My friend**

Review. Reviews are nice. Reviews make writers happy. If you review I will be sooo happy. Do it for the children.

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><p><strong>3<strong>

**Mr. Sarcasm  
><strong>

"I 'ate this place," I snap in his direction, flicking some ash off the tip of my cigarette into the snow between my boots.

"You hate it _everywhere, _Mole. I think you'd be a shut in or some kind-of freaky hermit if it was not for me," Gregory flaunts proudly as if he's my parent. I laugh at that because he's being ridiculous. Three class periods and I already want to gouge my eyes and ears out and murder half of the students in my classes. No, make that two thirds of the entire school.

"'Ow long until I get to leave zis fucking awful place?" I watch him shrink a little into his beige jacket to keep himself warm. He simply extends his right wrist towards me, showing his watch.

"Two more periods after lunch ends, then you can go bash some skulls." I grunt in response, willing his watch to stop so the bell signaling the end of lunch period won't ring. Unfortunately, that bitch god hasn't granted me the power to stop time, go figure.

As the shrill sound that resembles a warning of the apocalypse reverberates painfully through my ribcage, me and Gregory stand up straight from leaning against the outside wall when something catches his eye. I can see his atoms-apple bob with a small in-audible gulp over the chatter of high-school children and silently follow his gaze. Suddenly infuriated I grind the remainder of my cigarette in between my teeth as I see what his eyes are locked so intensely on. Across the small pathway leading back into the main doors of the school is _him. _Will Maddison.

He's a fairly tall guy with a slightly muscular build (nothing compared to me though) and with very light brown hair and blue eyes. He has some freckles on his face and always dresses fairly nice but the overall vibe he emits just screams, "douche" every time I'm near him. His expression is pleading and almost sad if I had to say so, and I watch emotions flicker across Gregory's face. I can read him so well and he doesn't even know it. Anger, sadness, anger again. He sighs and turns to me.

"Gregory-", I start in a low tone.

"I have to talk to him eventually, Chris." His head turns a little to stare at Will, but his gaze swiftly comes back to me. "I'll be fine, I promise." I growl a little in response.

"You will do nothing stupeed, non?" I manage. Gregory laughs a little, but it's sad.

"Of course not. I'd never let anyone treat me like… that twice, Mole. Really, I'm not some sniveling character in some sappy movie." As he steps forward I clap my hand around his upper arm for a second.

The entire atmosphere changes as I bend slightly, my mouth at level with his ear to say so only he can hear, "Je sais." And then I walk away, even though every part of me screams to turn around and stay there just in-case. But I can't, because I've already done enough stupid shit for today. And besides, it's his problem, not mine.

…-…

"'Ow deed your talk go?" I ask as he plays with the radio in his car. Gregory huffs and shakes his head.

"How do you think it went, Mole?" I study him intently for a moment, flicking my cigarette out the window because I'm not allowed to smoke in his car. His cheeks are slightly red and he looks tired, his hands are gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight and his hair is just ever so slightly disheveled. He settles on putting in a CD and I watch him relax a little as the familiar noise falls out of the speakers.

"I am guessing fantastic."

"Ha-ha. You know, you should quit the hit-man business and go into stand-up comedy. You could be famous for your flawless sarcasm and amuse thousands about as much as you're amusing me now," Gregory is quick to snap. I chuckle.

"Oui, you know zat I could." I carry the joking atmosphere for a little longer before silencing myself, letting him know that now I actually want the real story. We communicate well without even speaking at all.

As we stop at a red light he runs his hand through his hair a few times and bites his lip. He does that when he's nervous, Gregory's always been an easily-stressed person even though he can act so cool and collected most of the time. It's his silent burden, his little secret agony. Everyone has that and everyone has the one person that they share that weakness with. He chooses me. I'm the only person to ever get to see this, the worried, anxious, insecure Gregory. It's slightly liberating.

"Stop eet, the biting thing. Eet is not normal, Gregory." Pulling up towards a drive-through Harbuck's Coffee, he sighs deeply.

"I know, I know. Bad habits die hard." There's a brief moment of silence while he scans the menu through the now rolled-down window. Freezing cold air wafts through and into the car. "Hey, I'm glad you showed today. You really should make more of an effort to come to school, you're smart." I scoff loudly and bitterly. "No, really, Christophe, you're smart. Just because you don't test well doesn't mean you're not brilliant."

"Don't bring zat up, Je ne peux pas vous croire parfois," I mutter bitterly.

"I'm just trying to boost your confidence a little," he says calmly.

"I don't need my fucking confidence boosted, I'm not a whiny beetch!" Gregory laughs a little, shaking his head slowly.

"I dunno, sometimes…" he trails off, joking.

"Fuck you too."

"Buy me a drink first, at least."

"I am!" I slightly shout, still angry at his nonchalant-ness after purposely getting me ticked off. I hand him a few crumpled bills to pay for his coffee and he laughs at my come-back, if you can even count it as that.

As we pull up to the first window to wait while the highly incompetent workers fuck around brainlessly inside, I corner him. "Are you even going to tell me what 'appened?" He bites his lip again.

Gregory sinks a little into his seat. "Will apologized a lot… I mostly listened. I just… didn't really know what I am supposed to say to him. It's unforgiveable but…" I watch him sink his perfect teeth into his bottom lip and can feel my heart break.

"But you love 'im," I finish for him. Gregory is silent for a moment before slowly nodding. And that's the moment where my heart breaks.

"I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Christophe." The drive-through window opens and a bored looking girl in her early twenties with a lot of piercings and pink-streaked hair hands Gregory his coffee through the window, sparing me from having to reply or give advice. Her eyes linger on me a little too long and I find myself glaring as Gregory pulls away and back onto the road.

"Want some?" He offers, holding out the cup.

"You know I do not drink zat sheet," I say dryly and with a little less sting than usual. I can't tell if he notices or not but frankly I don't really care. I just want to go home and be alone for a while, maybe take on an extra job just to clear my head. Probably I'll just go dig some holes. It seems that's all I'm really good for now, digging holes.

After ten more minutes of mildly uncomfortable silence he pulls up to my shitty run-down apartment complex. I moves out of my mother's house the day after I turned eighteen. I had been saving up for almost a year and the absolute joy I felt the day I bought my disgusting little ram-shack place still lingers every time I walk in, because it's _mine. _It's my sanctuary. And my landlord lets me dig in the empty lot outback. Plus, no dog policy, unlike my previous neighbors who had five fucking Golden Retrievers. Those dogs take the title of the breed that's most prone to bites but yet everyone and their brother has one. I hate dogs.

I open the door to his car and grab my shovel before climbing out and making a damn show of it too.

"Are you, you know, doing anything tonight?" Gregory asks. I shrug, not really in the mood for conversation. "I… uh… I might come over later. I dunno yet. Maybe I'll help you with your physics homework, if you want." The only response he gets to _that _load of bullshit is a glare. He knows I won't touch that stuff. With a sigh he mutters a faint, "alright" and I slam his car door, watching him pull away.

Once inside my under-furnished and under-heated apartment, I kick off my boots dramatically, basking in the violent thump they make against the wall. Throwing my shovel down on the couch just as brutally, I stalk off towards my bedroom and grab my laptop, punching the power button furiously.

I have a notification, which means a request. I quickly pull open the page, desperate for a distraction from my quickly dissolving dreams and the last few rays of hope I had possessed.

_**Mysterion: **__Gotta job for ya. Interested? [sent 1:34pm]_

Mysterion has been a long time informant. He connects his people to me and I do the deed. He gets the cash from the customer and delivers it all nice and pretty to my doorstep, simple as that. I have a couple other people too that keep an eye out and occasionally connect me with clients, but nothing as regular as this guy. He knows some pretty fucked up shit to know this many people that want somebody dead. Besides him there's a girl that goes by the name of Cassie and a man that calls himself Walt. I've never met Walt in person, though. Cassie, however, is a drinking pal of mine.

_**Mole: **__always. How much cash r you talking? [sent 3:13pm]_

His reply is practically immediate.

_**Mysterion: **__6000. big deal, here. huge opportunity, Mole. The guy is apparently some old pervert involved in some pretty nasty business. my client wants him taken out in revenge to his late fiancé. sexy, right?_

_**Mole: **__6000? Are you shitting me? You have to be pretty fucked up to think killing filthy trash like that in revenge for the dead is sexy._

_**Mysterion: **__Yea yea, we've previously established I'm all kindsa fucked up. Soon as possible would be good for this guy. We're talking desperate and rich here, my friend. Can you tomorrow night? _

_**Mole: **__have a job with Cass then. She's gonna brief me tomorrow night. I'll do it tonight._

_**Mysterion: **__perfect. I'll send u the info. _

I reach into my back pocket for my crappy flip phone and quickly dial Gregory.

"Mole?" He asks, sounding slightly concerned as to why I'm suddenly calling when I hate cell phones.

"Get your sheet together, mon ami. We 'ave a job."


End file.
